The Wreck of the “Lady Alice”
The next morning at breakfast Tarzan’s place was vacant. Miss Strong
was mildly curious, for Mr. Caldwell had always made it a point to wait
that he might breakfast with her and her mother. As she was sitting on
deck later Monsieur Thuran paused to exchange a half dozen pleasant
words with her. He seemed in most excellent spirits—his manner was the
extreme of affability. As he passed on Miss Strong thought what a very
delightful man was Monsieur Thuran.
The day dragged heavily. She missed the quiet companionship of Mr.
Caldwell—there had been something about him that had made the girl like
him from the first; he had talked so entertainingly of the places he
had seen—the peoples and their customs—the wild beasts; and he had
always had a droll way of drawing striking comparisons between savage
animals and civilized men that showed a considerable knowledge of the
former, and a keen, though somewhat cynical, estimate of the latter.
When Monsieur Thuran stopped again to chat with her in the afternoon
she welcomed the break in the day’s monotony. But she had begun to
become seriously concerned in Mr. Caldwell’s continued absence; somehow
she constantly associated it with the start she had had the night
before, when the dark object fell past her port into the sea. Presently
she broached the subject to Monsieur Thuran. Had he seen Mr. Caldwell
today? He had not. Why?
“He was not at breakfast as usual, nor have I seen him once since
yesterday,” explained the girl.
Monsieur Thuran was extremely solicitous.
“I did not have the pleasure of intimate acquaintance with Mr.
Caldwell,” he said. “He seemed a most estimable gentleman, however. Can
it be that he is indisposed, and has remained in his stateroom? It
would not be strange.”
“No,” replied the girl, “it would not be strange, of course; but for
some inexplicable reason I have one of those foolish feminine
presentiments that all is not right with Mr. Caldwell. It is the
strangest feeling—it is as though I knew that he was not on board the
ship.”
Monsieur Thuran laughed pleasantly. “Mercy, my dear Miss Strong,” he
said; “where in the world could he be then? We have not been within
sight of land for days.”
“Of course, it is ridiculous of me,” she admitted. And then: “But I am
not going to worry about it any longer; I am going to find out where
Mr. Caldwell is,” and she motioned to a passing steward.
“That may be more difficult than you imagine, my dear girl,” thought
Monsieur Thuran, but aloud he said: “By all means.”
“Find Mr. Caldwell, please,” she said to the steward, “and tell him
that his friends are much worried by his continued absence.”
“You are very fond of Mr. Caldwell?” suggested Monsieur Thuran.
“I think he is splendid,” replied the girl. “And mamma is perfectly
infatuated with him. He is the sort of man with whom one has a feeling
of perfect security—no one could help but have confidence in Mr.
Caldwell.”
A moment later the steward returned to say that Mr. Caldwell was not in
his stateroom. “I cannot find him, Miss Strong, and”—he hesitated—“I
have learned that his berth was not occupied last night. I think that I
had better report the matter to the captain.”
“Most assuredly,” exclaimed Miss Strong. “I shall go with you to the
captain myself. It is terrible! I know that something awful has
happened. My presentiments were not false, after all.”
It was a very frightened young woman and an excited steward who
presented themselves before the captain a few moments later. He
listened to their stories in silence—a look of concern marking his
expression as the steward assured him that he had sought for the
missing passenger in every part of the ship that a passenger might be
expected to frequent.
“And are you sure, Miss Strong, that you saw a body fall overboard last
night?” he asked.
“There is not the slightest doubt about that,” she answered. “I cannot
say that it was a human body—there was no outcry. It might have been
only what I thought it was—a bundle of refuse. But if Mr. Caldwell is
not found on board I shall always be positive that it was he whom I saw
fall past my port.”
The captain ordered an immediate and thorough search of the entire ship
from stem to stern—no nook or cranny was to be overlooked. Miss Strong
remained in his cabin, waiting the outcome of the quest. The captain
asked her many questions, but she could tell him nothing about the
missing man other than what she had herself seen during their brief
acquaintance on shipboard. For the first time she suddenly realized how
very little indeed Mr. Caldwell had told her about himself or his past
life. That he had been born in Africa and educated in Paris was about
all she knew, and this meager information had been the result of her
surprise that an Englishman should speak English with such a marked
French accent.
“Did he ever speak of any enemies?” asked the captain.
“Never.”
“Was he acquainted with any of the other passengers?”
“Only as he had been with me—through the circumstance of casual meeting
as fellow shipmates.”
“Er—was he, in your opinion, Miss Strong, a man who drank to excess?”
“I do not know that he drank at all—he certainly had not been drinking
up to half an hour before I saw that body fall overboard,” she
answered, “for I was with him on deck up to that time.”
“It is very strange,” said the captain. “He did not look to me like a
man who was subject to fainting spells, or anything of that sort. And
even had he been it is scarcely credible that he should have fallen
completely over the rail had he been taken with an attack while leaning
upon it—he would rather have fallen inside, upon the deck. If he is not
on board, Miss Strong, he was thrown overboard—and the fact that you
heard no outcry would lead to the assumption that he was dead before he
left the ship’s deck—murdered.”
The girl shuddered.
It was a full hour later that the first officer returned to report the
outcome of the search.
“Mr. Caldwell is not on board, sir,” he said.
“I fear that there is something more serious than accident here, Mr.
Brently,” said the captain. “I wish that you would make a personal and
very careful examination of Mr. Caldwell’s effects, to ascertain if
there is any clew to a motive either for suicide or murder—sift the
thing to the bottom.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” responded Mr. Brently, and left to commence his
investigation.
Hazel Strong was prostrated. For two days she did not leave her cabin,
and when she finally ventured on deck she was very wan and white, with
great, dark circles beneath her eyes. Waking or sleeping, it seemed
that she constantly saw that dark body dropping, swift and silent, into
the cold, grim sea.
Shortly after her first appearance on deck following the tragedy,
Monsieur Thuran joined her with many expressions of kindly solicitude.
“Oh, but it is terrible, Miss Strong,” he said. “I cannot rid my mind
of it.”
“Nor I,” said the girl wearily. “I feel that he might have been saved
had I but given the alarm.”
“You must not reproach yourself, my dear Miss Strong,” urged Monsieur
Thuran. “It was in no way your fault. Another would have done as you
did. Who would think that because something fell into the sea from a
ship that it must necessarily be a man? Nor would the outcome have been
different had you given an alarm. For a while they would have doubted
your story, thinking it but the nervous hallucination of a woman—had
you insisted it would have been too late to have rescued him by the
time the ship could have been brought to a stop, and the boats lowered
and rowed back miles in search of the unknown spot where the tragedy
had occurred. No, you must not censure yourself. You have done more
than any other of us for poor Mr. Caldwell—you were the only one to
miss him. It was you who instituted the search.”
The girl could not help but feel grateful to him for his kind and
encouraging words. He was with her often—almost constantly for the
remainder of the voyage—and she grew to like him very much indeed.
Monsieur Thuran had learned that the beautiful Miss Strong, of
Baltimore, was an American heiress—a very wealthy girl in her own
right, and with future prospects that quite took his breath away when
he contemplated them, and since he spent most of his time in that
delectable pastime it is a wonder that he breathed at all.
It had been Monsieur Thuran’s intention to leave the ship at the first
port they touched after the disappearance of Tarzan. Did he not have in
his coat pocket the thing he had taken passage upon this very boat to
obtain? There was nothing more to detain him here. He could not return
to the Continent fast enough, that he might board the first express for
St. Petersburg.
But now another idea had obtruded itself, and was rapidly crowding his
original intentions into the background. That American fortune was not
to be sneezed at, nor was its possessor a whit less attractive.
“_Sapristi!_ but she would cause a sensation in St. Petersburg.” And he
would, too, with the assistance of her inheritance.
After Monsieur Thuran had squandered a few million dollars, he
discovered that the vocation was so entirely to his liking that he
would continue on down to Cape Town, where he suddenly decided that he
had pressing engagements that might detain him there for some time.
Miss Strong had told him that she and her mother were to visit the
latter’s brother there—they had not decided upon the duration of their
stay, and it would probably run into months.
She was delighted when she found that Monsieur Thuran was to be there
also.
“I hope that we shall be able to continue our acquaintance,” she said.
“You must call upon mamma and me as soon as we are settled.”
Monsieur Thuran was delighted at the prospect, and lost no time in
saying so. Mrs. Strong was not quite so favorably impressed by him as
her daughter.
“I do not know why I should distrust him,” she said to Hazel one day as
they were discussing him. “He seems a perfect gentleman in every
respect, but sometimes there is something about his eyes—a fleeting
expression which I cannot describe, but which when I see it gives me a
very uncanny feeling.”
The girl laughed. “You are a silly dear, mamma,” she said.
“I suppose so, but I am sorry that we have not poor Mr. Caldwell for
company instead.”
“And I, too,” replied her daughter.
Monsieur Thuran became a frequent visitor at the home of Hazel Strong’s
uncle in Cape Town. His attentions were very marked, but they were so
punctiliously arranged to meet the girl’s every wish that she came to
depend upon him more and more. Did she or her mother or a cousin
require an escort—was there a little friendly service to be rendered,
the genial and ubiquitous Monsieur Thuran was always available. Her
uncle and his family grew to like him for his unfailing courtesy and
willingness to be of service. Monsieur Thuran was becoming
indispensable. At length, feeling the moment propitious, he proposed.
Miss Strong was startled. She did not know what to say.
“I had never thought that you cared for me in any such way,” she told
him. “I have looked upon you always as a very dear friend. I shall not
give you my answer now. Forget that you have asked me to be your wife.
Let us go on as we have been—then I can consider you from an entirely
different angle for a time. It may be that I shall discover that my
feeling for you is more than friendship. I certainly have not thought
for a moment that I loved you.”
This arrangement was perfectly satisfactory to Monsieur Thuran. He
deeply regretted that he had been hasty, but he had loved her for so
long a time, and so devotedly, that he thought that every one must know
it.
“From the first time I saw you, Hazel,” he said, “I have loved you. I
am willing to wait, for I am certain that so great and pure a love as
mine will be rewarded. All that I care to know is that you do not love
another. Will you tell me?”
“I have never been in love in my life,” she replied, and he was quite
satisfied. On the way home that night he purchased a steam yacht, and
built a million-dollar villa on the Black Sea.
The next day Hazel Strong enjoyed one of the happiest surprises of her
life—she ran face to face upon Jane Porter as she was coming out of a
jeweler’s shop.
“Why, Jane Porter!” she exclaimed. “Where in the world did you drop
from? Why, I can’t believe my own eyes.”
“Well, of all things!” cried the equally astonished Jane. “And here I
have been wasting whole reams of perfectly good imagination picturing
you in Baltimore—the very idea!” And she threw her arms about her
friend once more, and kissed her a dozen times.
By the time mutual explanations had been made Hazel knew that Lord
Tennington’s yacht had put in at Cape Town for at least a week’s stay,
and at the end of that time was to continue on her voyage—this time up
the West Coast—and so back to England. “Where,” concluded Jane, “I am
to be married.”
“Then you are not married yet?” asked Hazel.
“Not yet,” replied Jane, and then, quite irrelevantly, “I wish England
were a million miles from here.”
Visits were exchanged between the yacht and Hazel’s relatives. Dinners
were arranged, and trips into the surrounding country to entertain the
visitors. Monsieur Thuran was a welcome guest at every function. He
gave a dinner himself to the men of the party, and managed to
ingratiate himself in the good will of Lord Tennington by many little
acts of hospitality.
Monsieur Thuran had heard dropped a hint of something which might
result from this unexpected visit of Lord Tennington’s yacht, and he
wanted to be counted in on it. Once when he was alone with the
Englishman he took occasion to make it quite plain that his engagement
to Miss Strong was to be announced immediately upon their return to
America. “But not a word of it, my dear Tennington—not a word of it.”
“Certainly, I quite understand, my dear fellow,” Tennington had
replied. “But you are to be congratulated—ripping girl, don’t you
know—really.”
The next day it came. Mrs. Strong, Hazel, and Monsieur Thuran were Lord
Tennington’s guests aboard his yacht. Mrs. Strong had been telling them
how much she had enjoyed her visit at Cape Town, and that she regretted
that a letter just received from her attorneys in Baltimore had
necessitated her cutting her visit shorter than they had intended.
“When do you sail?” asked Tennington.
“The first of the week, I think,” she replied.
“Indeed?” exclaimed Monsieur Thuran. “I am very fortunate. I, too, have
found that I must return at once, and now I shall have the honor of
accompanying and serving you.”
“That is nice of you, Monsieur Thuran,” replied Mrs. Strong. “I am sure
that we shall be glad to place ourselves under your protection.” But in
the bottom of her heart was the wish that they might escape him. Why,
she could not have told.
“By Jove!” ejaculated Lord Tennington, a moment later. “Bully idea, by
Jove!”
“Yes, Tennington, of course,” ventured Clayton; “it must be a bully
idea if you had it, but what the deuce is it? Goin’ to steam to China
via the south pole?”
“Oh, I say now, Clayton,” returned Tennington, “you needn’t be so rough
on a fellow just because you didn’t happen to suggest this trip
yourself—you’ve acted a regular bounder ever since we sailed.
“No, sir,” he continued, “it’s a bully idea, and you’ll all say so.
It’s to take Mrs. Strong and Miss Strong, and Thuran, too, if he’ll
come, as far as England with us on the yacht. Now, isn’t that a
corker?”
“Forgive me, Tenny, old boy,” cried Clayton. “It certainly IS a corking
idea—I never should have suspected you of it. You’re quite sure it’s
original, are you?”
“And we’ll sail the first of the week, or any other time that suits
your convenience, Mrs. Strong,” concluded the big-hearted Englishman,
as though the thing were all arranged except the sailing date.
“Mercy, Lord Tennington, you haven’t even given us an opportunity to
thank you, much less decide whether we shall be able to accept your
generous invitation,” said Mrs. Strong.
“Why, of course you’ll come,” responded Tennington. “We’ll make as good
time as any passenger boat, and you’ll be fully as comfortable; and,
anyway, we all want you, and won’t take no for an answer.”
And so it was settled that they should sail the following Monday.
Two days out the girls were sitting in Hazel’s cabin, looking at some
prints she had had finished in Cape Town. They represented all the
pictures she had taken since she had left America, and the girls were
both engrossed in them, Jane asking many questions, and Hazel keeping
up a perfect torrent of comment and explanation of the various scenes
and people.
“And here,” she said suddenly, “here’s a man you know. Poor fellow, I
have so often intended asking you about him, but I never have been able
to think of it when we were together.” She was holding the little print
so that Jane did not see the face of the man it portrayed.
“His name was John Caldwell,” continued Hazel. “Do you recall him? He
said that he met you in America. He is an Englishman.”
“I do not recollect the name,” replied Jane. “Let me see the picture.”
“The poor fellow was lost overboard on our trip down the coast,” she
said, as she handed the print to Jane.
“Lost over—Why, Hazel, Hazel—don’t tell me that he is dead—drowned at
sea! Hazel! Why don’t you say that you are joking!” And before the
astonished Miss Strong could catch her Jane Porter had slipped to the
floor in a swoon.
After Hazel had restored her chum to consciousness she sat looking at
her for a long time before either spoke.
“I did not know, Jane,” said Hazel, in a constrained voice, “that you
knew Mr. Caldwell so intimately that his death could prove such a shock
to you.”
“John Caldwell?” questioned Miss Porter. “You do not mean to tell me
that you do not know who this man was, Hazel?”
“Why, yes, Jane; I know perfectly well who he was—his name was John
Caldwell; he was from London.”
“Oh, Hazel, I wish I could believe it,” moaned the girl. “I wish I
could believe it, but those features are burned so deep into my memory
and my heart that I should recognize them anywhere in the world from
among a thousand others, who might appear identical to any one but me.”
“What do you mean, Jane?” cried Hazel, now thoroughly alarmed. “Who do
you think it is?”
“I don’t think, Hazel. I know that that is a picture of Tarzan of the
Apes.”
“Jane!”
“I cannot be mistaken. Oh, Hazel, are you sure that he is dead? Can
there be no mistake?”
“I am afraid not, dear,” answered Hazel sadly. “I wish I could think
that you are mistaken, but now a hundred and one little pieces of
corroborative evidence occur to me that meant nothing to me while I
thought that he was John Caldwell, of London. He said that he had been
born in Africa, and educated in France.”
“Yes, that would be true,” murmured Jane Porter dully.
“The first officer, who searched his luggage, found nothing to identify
John Caldwell, of London. Practically all his belongings had been made,
or purchased, in Paris. Everything that bore an initial was marked
either with a ‘T’ alone, or with ‘J. C. T.’ We thought that he was
traveling incognito under his first two names—the J. C. standing for
John Caldwell.”
“Tarzan of the Apes took the name Jean C. Tarzan,” said Jane, in the
same lifeless monotone. “And he is dead! Oh! Hazel, it is horrible! He
died all alone in this terrible ocean! It is unbelievable that that
brave heart should have ceased to beat—that those mighty muscles are
quiet and cold forever! That he who was the personification of life and
health and manly strength should be the prey of slimy, crawling things,
that—” But she could go no further, and with a little moan she buried
her head in her arms, and sank sobbing to the floor.
For days Miss Porter was ill, and would see no one except Hazel and the
faithful Esmeralda. When at last she came on deck all were struck by
the sad change that had taken place in her. She was no longer the
alert, vivacious American beauty who had charmed and delighted all who
came in contact with her. Instead she was a very quiet and sad little
girl—with an expression of hopeless wistfulness that none but Hazel
Strong could interpret.
The entire party strove their utmost to cheer and amuse her, but all to
no avail. Occasionally the jolly Lord Tennington would wring a wan
smile from her, but for the most part she sat with wide eyes looking
out across the sea.
With Jane Porter’s illness one misfortune after another seemed to
attack the yacht. First an engine broke down, and they drifted for two
days while temporary repairs were being made. Then a squall struck them
unaware, that carried overboard nearly everything above deck that was
portable. Later two of the seamen fell to fighting in the forecastle,
with the result that one of them was badly wounded with a knife, and
the other had to be put in irons. Then, to cap the climax, the mate
fell overboard at night, and was drowned before help could reach him.
The yacht cruised about the spot for ten hours, but no sign of the man
was seen after he disappeared from the deck into the sea.
Every member of the crew and guests was gloomy and depressed after
these series of misfortunes. All were apprehensive of worse to come,
and this was especially true of the seamen who recalled all sorts of
terrible omens and warnings that had occurred during the early part of
the voyage, and which they could now clearly translate into the
precursors of some grim and terrible tragedy to come.
Nor did the croakers have long to wait. The second night after the
drowning of the mate the little yacht was suddenly wracked from stem to
stern. About one o’clock in the morning there was a terrific impact
that threw the slumbering guests and crew from berth and bunk. A mighty
shudder ran through the frail craft; she lay far over to starboard; the
engines stopped. For a moment she hung there with her decks at an angle
of forty-five degrees—then, with a sullen, rending sound, she slipped
back into the sea and righted.
Instantly the men rushed upon deck, followed closely by the women.
Though the night was cloudy, there was little wind or sea, nor was it
so dark but that just off the port bow a black mass could be discerned
floating low in the water.
“A derelict,” was the terse explanation of the officer of the watch.
Presently the engineer hurried on deck in search of the captain.
“That patch we put on the cylinder head’s blown out, sir,” he reported,
“and she’s makin’ water fast for’ard on the port bow.”
An instant later a seaman rushed up from below.
“My Gawd!” he cried. “Her whole bleedin’ bottom’s ripped out. She can’t
float twenty minutes.”
“Shut up!” roared Tennington. “Ladies, go below and get some of your
things together. It may not be so bad as that, but we may have to take
to the boats. It will be safer to be prepared. Go at once, please. And,
Captain Jerrold, send some competent man below, please, to ascertain
the exact extent of the damage. In the meantime I might suggest that
you have the boats provisioned.”
The calm, low voice of the owner did much to reassure the entire party,
and a moment later all were occupied with the duties he had suggested.
By the time the ladies had returned to the deck the rapid provisioning
of the boats had been about completed, and a moment later the officer
who had gone below had returned to report. But his opinion was scarcely
needed to assure the huddled group of men and women that the end of the
_Lady Alice_ was at hand.
“Well, sir?” said the captain, as his officer hesitated.
“I dislike to frighten the ladies, sir,” he said, “but she can’t float
a dozen minutes, in my opinion. There’s a hole in her you could drive a
bally cow through, sir.”
For five minutes the _Lady Alice_ had been settling rapidly by the bow.
Already her stern loomed high in the air, and foothold on the deck was
of the most precarious nature. She carried four boats, and these were
all filled and lowered away in safety. As they pulled rapidly from the
stricken little vessel Jane Porter turned to have one last look at her.
Just then there came a loud crash and an ominous rumbling and pounding
from the heart of the ship—her machinery had broken loose, and was
dashing its way toward the bow, tearing out partitions and bulkheads as
it went—the stern rose rapidly high above them; for a moment she seemed
to pause there—a vertical shaft protruding from the bosom of the ocean,
and then swiftly she dove headforemost beneath the waves.
In one of the boats the brave Lord Tennington wiped a tear from his
eye—he had not seen a fortune in money go down forever into the sea,
but a dear, beautiful friend whom he had loved.
At last the long night broke, and a tropical sun smote down upon the
rolling water. Jane Porter had dropped into a fitful slumber—the fierce
light of the sun upon her upturned face awoke her. She looked about
her. In the boat with her were three sailors, Clayton, and Monsieur
Thuran. Then she looked for the other boats, but as far as the eye
could reach there was nothing to break the fearful monotony of that
waste of waters—they were alone in a small boat upon the broad
Atlantic.